Western Short StoryAn Incident of Alliance Tom Sheehan

Western Short Story

The
Mogollons towered beside him for over three miles of trail when a
cougar leaped from hiding. His horse reared, slipped and was
tumbling. Noah Brittington fell off the edge of the trail, above
Silver Creek, and went down into the mad current. He thought 16 years
on this Earth was too short a lifetime for anybody to bear. If the
good Lord was cheating him, what had he done for such a quick end,
this simple run for gold? This trail was pointed out to him by his
grandfather as the best way to the Mogollons and a cache of gold he
had hidden away years earlier. But he had been lost for three days
now. Was such a wise old man now lacking in wisdom or memory? Had he
forgotten the right way? The weather was warm, the water would not
freeze him, but would fill his boots that he’d have no way of
getting off. The fall or sudden hit would wrench his weapons from
their holsters, which might not be too bad for the swimming he hoped
he could endure if he could stay clear of the horse hitting the water
at the same time.

If
… if … if … water, not cold yet, but enveloping. Smothering.

Sixteen-year
old Noah Brittington, his weapons quickly gone, went black as the
horse pounded down into the stream directly beside him, brute legs
thrashing at the threat, the sudden fall from surety. He never knew
one hoof had collided with the back of his head. Did not know how
much water he had swallowed. Did not know, for nearly an hour, that a
young Indian brave had pulled him from the stream, had decided to
save Noah rather than the horse the river was taking in its rapid
flow.

The
young grandson of an elderly prospector, now “out of the searchin’
business,” came to his senses on a warm, flat rock beside the bend
where Silver Creek slowed its rush. The residue of sun’s heat
penetrated his backside first, then his bare arms. Shaking his head,
his eyes starting to focus, he first saw the warm and inviting flames
of a small fire, and then the face of the young Indian. The young
brave, leaning over the fire, stirring it, a spit in front of him
giving off a delicious aroma, was not the least afraid. That’s when
Noah B., as has mother called him, realized his pistols were gone,
his rifle was gone, his horse was gone. He had only his clothes, a
shirt drying on a thin stick of wood upright near the fire, his pants
and boots drying in place on his body, his hat a cushion under his
head.

The
heat of the warm rock penetrated him before he sensed the heat of the
fire. An awakening aroma of cooked meat filled the air. The Mogollon
cliff was throwing down its first dark piece of shade; soon it would
reach him and his companion.

The
Indian, as young as he was, perhaps younger, held a piece of cooked
meat out to him. Firelight sparkled in the brave’s eyes. Noah B
took the chunk of cooked meat gratefully, said, “Thank you,” and
began to gnaw in earnest. The Indian smiled and did the same, and in
his almost full mouthful asked, “Who you?”

“Noah
B.”

“Nova
Bee? That real name?” His teeth were brighter than any teeth Noah B
had seen in a year or more. He vaguely remembered the smile on Sally
Colamore’s face, how her bright white teeth seemed so different
from everybody else’s teeth. At the back of his head, in a place
almost dark, he saw her father’s wagon, loaded high, passing by his
grandfather’s ranch as her family was on the way out of the
territory, leaving forever.

Noah
B looked around the thickening darkness. The water still flowed less
than fifteen feet away, the sound steady though no longer in a rush.
An unseen fish jumped and made a sound as it hit back at the
blackening water. The shadows of the Mogollons as well as night
itself reached out to touch the two young men, and fell across the
fire. The overhead clouds gave off a promise of a break as a golden
glow appeared in a rift. The moon was advancing through clouds and
darkness.

“You
pull me out?” Noah B made a swimming motion.

“I
see you in water, looking down. No arms moving. Swim like Powatapha
want me swim.”

“Did
I lose all my gear.” He touched his belt and empty holsters,
shrugged his shoulders.

The
Indian said, “River take all. Take horse down there.” He pointed
downstream. At the bend in the cliff Silver Creek was gone. So was
his horse.

Noah
B touched his own chest. “My name is No-ah B,” he said. “Who
are you?”

“I
am son of Eagle Claw and Dew Morning. I am called River Walks. But
only until I become chief. Then I will wear another name. I will pick
the name from the mountain or the water. The mountain and the river
will sing my name. I will hear it when I am hunting for food, for
skins, for the fish with many colors on his back. The wolf will run
from me as he runs now, and the coyote, and the mad pig. The bird
with arrow feathers in his wings will leave me signals against the
sky.”

Noah
B, mystified by River Walks’ natural reach at things, smiled at the
litany, took another bite of meat, found interest as well as
curiosity leaping within him. There was something old and pleasant
and durable with the young Indian, obviously gathered from the ages
and held close. Legend and myth had become an unbound book for him.
His people, all the supposed diverse tribes and clans scattered from
the snows of far Canada to the mountains below and beyond the big
rivers, had been here a long time. All that was unwritten was still
known. He wondered about all the things they might know that he’d
never learn, not even hear about. Sally came back from wherever;
maybe he’d never know about her. Maybe he’d never find the gold
cache or see his mother or grandfather again.

“I
came here to help my grandfather, now a very old man with little to
hold onto. He sent me to find what he had hidden here, a small
treasure of the bright gold. He cannot work any longer. My father is
dead, from endless work. I want to help my mother and my grandfather,
so I came here to look for his cache.”

“The
old man is a chief, a dying chief?”

“In
a way, yes, he is a chief. He is my chief. He is old as time.” The
vision of his grandfather locked on the small porch, his legs almost
stiff now, his eyes narrowed when looking at him, trying to find his
face, came in quick pictures at the back of his head. His
grandfather’s spirit would run all over the mountains if his legs
would let him.

“He
change his name when he become chief?”

Noah
B thought he found an opening. “Yes,” Noah B said, “now he is
called Thunder Boss.” The heavy and guttural voice of his
grandfather came back to him like a shout from the mule end of a
wagon. Now, at a distance, maybe not to be heard again, it was warm
and comfortable. It gave his grandfather a solid sense of being in
spite of the porch scene, the squinting eyes, the hands locked into
ugly fists, the stiffening legs.

River
Walks said, “He take his name from the sky? Is a big chief now, but
send young man to get bright rock from the big mountain. I find
bright rock in many caves of the big mountain, but no bright rock in
the river. Mountain is big brother to river. River walks away from
big brother. Take your horse, your guns, fill your mouth with water
only Powatapha know how much, send me.”

“You
know the bright rock?” Noah B said with deep interest. Perhaps his
luck had not run out on him with the fall. Firelight flickered across
River Walks face, young on the skin, old in the eyes.

“Cougar
stand guard on bright rock. He watches for the mountain. Knew you
were coming on the trail. I know all the way from other side. Saw
cougar watching you. If you take heart of the mountain, cougar try to
take it back.”

“We
use the bright rock. We get food with bright rock. You do not value
bright rock?”

“It
belongs to mountain. We do not take it from mountain.”

“You
take mountain’s deer for food. Mountain bird eggs from nests. They
live and die, sometimes you kill them. I just take bright rock that
has no life in it to give life.”

River
Walks smiled at Noah B. “You talk like old Indian getting older. I
know the talk you say. I have heard it at council fire since I was
young. My father wants to live in the mountains and get older as the
sun gets colder. He does not want more wars. Powatapha makes all men
brothers but not all brothers know they are brothers. All Indians
come across the bridge of ice the way Powatapha lead them. He lead
them past the ice to the happy mountains where ice does not stay all
the time. Powatapha let them see how things grow, how sky throw down
sun and rain, light and dark, warm and cold. Some brothers of the
nations fight among themselves. They forget Powatapha brought them
all from the land of the ice over the ice bridge.”

“Did
Powatapha know bright rock was here? Did he leave it for me to use,
but not for you? Does the cougar keep you away as he keeps me away?”

“You
talk council talk. My father would know your words, but not all at
council would believe. I know your talk. I will take you to bright
rock in the new sun. You take it to old chief, Big Thunder Boss, tell
him no war here.”

“I
will do that, River Walks. Noah B promises that.” He saw the rift
in the clouds, the moon poking through, a gold and silver moon
touching the raggy edges of clouds, the raggy edges of the Mogollon
cliff, touching the strange companionship of Indian and cowboy, both
youths with a hopeful outlook.

“I
lose my knife in river,” River Walks said, “or we could become
blood brothers.” Instead of using a knife, he unwound a cord that
was about his neck. “Put around your wrists, and you will never
break our bond. You try and break.”

He
wrapped the cord about Noah B’s wrists, holding them tightly
together. Though the cord was thin, Noh B could not break it. He
struggled, twisting it all the time, even putting his arms over his
head. He could not break the thin cord. He tried the overhead
maneuver again, without luck.